Decorating Schemes

1

Wilmont, Washington

Stripping is not the best way for a woman to earn her living. I mean, really.
To start out with, the clothes you have to wear are nothing to write home about,
and then look at what it does to your skin. All those caustic chemicals ruin
your hands. At least I’m the kind who wouldn’t be caught dead at a nail salon;
the cost of manicure upkeep would rival the federal deficit.

As an interior designer and new owner of a major auction house, I come in
contact with more than my share of old pieces that need nips and tweaks if not
complete face-lifts. For that, I have to rely on those nasty stripping compounds.
And don’t even think about the all-natural or organic kind. They just don’t
do the job as well or as fast.

That leads me to my other problem. No matter what kind of gloves I use or
how fast I work, they always wind up melted before I finish the fix to the furniture’s
finish. That’s what my newest pair had started to do when the phone rang in
the workshop at the warehouse.

“Norwalk & Farrell’s Auctions, Haley Farrell speaking.”

“Hi, Haley.” The fudgy voice was more than familiar. Before I could respond,
Noreen Daventry continued. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

For my gooey gloves, and the phone, no time would be good. The gloves were
done for, and I’d have to douse the receiver with stripper to rid it of the
rubbery mess, then hope and pray that it too wouldn’t succumb to the chemical.
But I couldn’t tell one of the richest women on the West Coast I was too busy
to talk to her.

“It’s never a bad time for a chat with you, Noreen.”

“That’s very kind, Haley.” A hint of humor underscored Noreen’s voice, a
clear reminder that we know more about each other than either likes.

“Since you’re in such a benevolent mood,” she went on, “this should be a
good time to ask you a favor.”

Groan. “Sure. What do you need?”

“I don’t need anything. But I do have friends whose home is in dire need
of your talents.”

Now she was playing my kind of tune. “Really? What’s their problem?”

“Oh, no problem. Just a house that hasn’t been touched in the last . . .
oh, I guess it must be fifteen years now. They’re newlyweds, and Dr. Marshall
would like to offer his darling new bride the chance to make the house hers.”

“Then you already know this job would be very lucrative for you. And I’ve
raved about your work to Deedee, the new Mrs. Marshall. They’d like you to come
over as soon as possible—this evening, even—to take a good look at their place
and give them your expert opinion. They like what you did with my new home.”

Noreen bought a white-elephant money pit almost a year ago at the first auction
I ran after my inheritance cleared probate. I worked like a horse to finish
the redesign in time for her to move in this spring. She’s been in the home
a mere eight weeks now and has already hosted six social-column-worthy bashes.

“I’m glad.” I checked every surface for paper and pen or pencil but found
none. Besides, my hands were in no condition to touch anything. “Tell you what.
I . . . ah . . . have a minor mess to clear up here, and then I’ll call you
back.”

A throaty laugh flowed over the connection. “Hope you’re not in trouble with
the law again.”

The nerve of the woman! I haven’t been in trouble with the law.

Never.

Not really.

They just jumped to judgment a few months back and thought I’d committed
a crime that anyone with a shred of brain matter would know I never could have
done. But I had to hold my tongue if I wanted to land the job—not a piece of
cake for me.

Another chuckle tested my patience, so I sent a quick prayer heavenward.

“I’ll be waiting for your call, then,” Noreen said. “Oh, and by the way.
You might as well know ahead of time. The Marshalls decided to hire Dutch too.”

This time I couldn’t keep the groan to myself.

Noreen laughed harder. “That’s what I thought. I suppose I should warn Deedee
that fireworks will be a daily thing when her general contractor and interior
designer come face-to-face.”

What could I say? Dutch Merrill and I don’t see eye to eye on much. Actually,
we don’t see eye to eye on anything, as we discovered during the months we were
forced to work together on Noreen’s remodel.

Well, I’ll admit his work at Noreen’s place was outstanding.

A tantrum wouldn’t do; I had to get a grip.

I had no choice but to play nice. “You’re right. The Fourth of July has nothing
on us. But we did do a good job on the Gerrity mansion. You haven’t stopped
raving about your new home, and the Wilmont Historical Society feels that although
we didn’t necessarily restore the mansion to its original glory, we didn’t hurt
its architectural or historical integrity either.”

“You’ve a point there. Even if you did fight like cats and dogs the whole
time, you and Dutch somehow worked a miracle. The house looks fabulous, you
both came in under budget, and you even finished three weeks ahead of schedule.”
She paused. Then, “But you have to agree, your spats did add much-needed of
comic relief to a dreary process.”

“Don’t worry, Noreen. Dutch and I can work just as well for the Marshalls
as we did for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I do have to get back to this mess—I
mean, to the matter I have to clear up.”

With still more of Noreen’s laughter ringing in my ear, I ran to the bathroom
next to the office in the warehouse, scraped the mushy remains of rubber gloves
off my hands, and made use of my favorite bank-busting but essential moisture
cleanser. The thick, creamy lather soothed my itchy hands, and the lukewarm
water felt like a balm.